I wish I gave less of a fuck, but I am just incapable of not having emotions, apparently.
Having a pet is so weird. Like neither of you speak each other’s language and yet you form some strong bond by rubbing against each other and sleeping together and you might accidentally kick them in the face or step on their tail once in a while but at the end of the day you two are best buddies from entirely different species.
It’s easy to feel like you’re the luckiest person until someone reminds you that you probably wouldn’t even make the Top 50. Save those spots for guys like Warren Buffett or Brad Pitt, the truly lucky ones. The guys that make walking down the street and getting approached by a talent scout (of the legitimate variety), the smartest move they didn’t even have to make, millions of dollars later. Or the guy that just so happens to pick good stocks. I’m a lucky person, but certainly not of that variety. I’m downright ordinary.
… then you realize how pathetic this sort of self-pity is, just because you’re ordinary. God made the plans, not I; of course, I can take hold of how “lucky” I choose to be, but there is a limit that cannot be exceeded once you’ve reached the ordinary luck threshold. I work hard - harder than most my age, I’m sure - which will surely be of benefit when the time comes.
That’s the thing, though. The luck I have (which is merely an optimistic, obsessively-compulsive perseverance) doesn’t come when you need (or want) luck the most. In ordinary luck, there is no instant gratification. You work your tail off, prioritizing tasks and dismissing the ones you deem less important. These can include, but are not limited to: sleep, sex, relationships, friendships, family, mental stability, free time, and passion. Sometimes all at the same time. But damn, the clarity that comes with the hunger for success is addicting. All in the name of the prospect that is when the time comes.
It isn’t even a guarantee. I desire to be the person who has the resources to collect their luck, like some gambler cashing in their chips after a particularly lucky hand of blackjack. It doesn’t seem fair sometimes when you’ve worked so hard for your luck, only to see it so easily acquired by those who are extraordinarily lucky.
Everyone knows that life isn’t fair, but sometimes you believe you’d be willing to sell your soul just so you could make it so.
My jealousy makes it hard to act as equally “stunned” as you when I know that, had I been in your situation, I would have cash in my luck the moment she said, “Here you go.” But that is not the reaction you were looking for me to give you. You were not looking for suggestions or consoling. (This is my fatal flaw: I do not think before I speak.) It was not an intentional stab to tout the number in my face. (This is my second fatal flaw, the ones that Greek tragedies always warn us about: hubris.) Everything is not about me, though sometimes I believe that it could be conceivable that world revolves for me. But even still, I know of these things but never even think to consider them until I’ve already said too much.
Non-sequitur logic, another weakness. It makes little sense as to why I suddenly felt the need to crumple up a tightly-held scrap of paper entitled “To Do.” South America. Motorcycle. New business venture. Surf lessons. Paid-off debts. The things that are material, but are of massive symbolism to me. The only thing, really — outside of fulfilling relationships and sometimes not even that — fuels me. The reason I wish I were luckier when I’ve used up all the luck my ordinary fate has allowed me. Sure, I’ve used it well, but once again, there are no guarantees for ordinary people like me.
Sometimes I get optimistic enough to believe that my time has yet to come, that God is waiting for the best moment to approach me like the talent scout did Pitt. “Hey there, you look promising. Let me give you an opportunity at the right place AND the right time.” You shake his hand and the next thing you know you’re on a fucking motorcycle in Argentina.
Patronizing hard work is a bitch when you just want to get on with your life as if you were one of the lucky ones.
i haven’t blogged in forever, but right now it sounds better than anything else i am presently doing, so here goes:
- FUCKING FUCK FUCK. it is so damn hot (like, 99 degrees on the coast, hot). my beach city was not built for this type of heat, so none of the older buildings have built-in air conditioning. so, that’s pretty much every building i enter on a regular basis (my apartment and my office). the heat makes me so irritable and it is literally inescapable. i’m naked in my living room, having just gotten out of my second jump in the shower today, with my feet submerged in a bucket of ice water. it’s been five minutes and i’m dry as a bone.
- no time for anything. work, then class, then group meet-ups (overachievers, man), and occasionally meetings for my freelance projects. i don’t even have time to squeeze in obligatory therapy. feh.
- i just want to sleep but it’s hot as fuck, i have an assignment due in to hours, a dinner engagement i have to attend, a meaningless study session i have to catch, and a test i have to study for because, accounting. also need to make sure my pets are fed and hydrated (including cooking dinner for my boyfriend ahead of time so he’ll remember to eat in the middle of his busy schedule, too.)
- I DON’T WANT TO TRAVEL FOR WORK. the week after next will be shot because i’ll be in sf.
- is this what being an adult feels like. cause i don’t wannaaaa